


Hotel California

by PsychGirl (snycock)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, First Time, M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-07
Updated: 2011-05-07
Packaged: 2019-06-13 04:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15356043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl
Summary: Epiphanies come in all sorts of ways, and not always when convenient.





	Hotel California

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Elaine, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Artifact Storage Room 3](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Artifact_Storage_Room_3) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Artifact Storage Room 3’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/artifactstorageroom3/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Written for Zelempa for the 2010 TS Secret Santa on LJ. She gave me a number of prompts, but the one that really struck me was "Intensely, sappily, traditionally romantic moments undercut by kicking a bad guy in the face". Not sure this is exactly what she was thinking about...

Blair scanned the crowd anxiously, looking for Jim. _This place must be driving him nuts_ , he thought, as the driving beat of the techno-pop thumped in his sternum. Besides the sheer volume, the dim interior of the warehouse was regularly pierced by the brightly colored beams of the halogen spotlights overheard; it had to be hell on a sentinel’s vision. Not to mention the occasional strobe lights that seemed to coincide with the music reaching a crescendo. 

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. They knew that someone had to be the local contact for the Delight that was flooding the Cascade market. When that contact had been identified as Mark Probst, who was also thought to be responsible for smuggling Kalashnikovs in for the Yakuza, the case had been kicked up to Major Crimes. The level of testosterone in the room visibly rose when they found out that Boris Strakovsky was Probst’s supplier. Strakovsky was Russian mafia, known up and down the West Coast, his fingers in everything from guns to drugs to prostitution and child porn, and the thought that they could shut down such a major operation and scoop the Feds in the process was just too much to resist. 

Although Blair had had some minor objections. “Really, in the grand scheme of things, Delight’s not that bad,” he’d told Simon and Jim. “It’s not physically addictive, the main effects are euphoria and a pervasive sense of well-being, and it only lasts for about four hours. It’s the perfect rave drug. And there’s a pretty solid amount of research now that suggests that people who take hallucinogens actually tend to experience positive life changes as a result—”

“Sandburg, I don’t want to hear it.” Simon had interrupted him, his hand raised. “It’s illegal, and it’s my job – and yours, too, _Detective_ \- to uphold the law.” Jim hadn’t said anything, but just ducked his head, trying to hide the grin on his face. So Blair sighed, and gave up, and started helping plan how to infiltrate Probst’s group. 

Sneaks had had a line on getting Jim into Probst’s organization as security, so all that remained to figure out was how to get Blair involved. When it became clear that the Delight was being delivered under the cover of the monthly raves at Probst’s warehouse, Blair had had an idea.

He smiled to himself as he wormed his way through the gyrating mob towards the bar. Simon hadn’t believed that Blair could get himself invited to the rave without the PD’s help. It _had_ been a while, but it hadn’t taken him too long to find that groove again. A week of evenings spent hopping around a half a dozen clubs downtown, renewing old acquaintances, and he’d found himself “on the list”. Fortunately his former field of study gave him a good excuse for why he’d been incommunicado for nearly four years. He didn’t think the news that he’d become a cop would have gone down well. 

The music shifted, the beat slightly faster now, and the bodies writhing on the dance floor paused for a moment, then started up again, their movements even more frenetic. Blair watched them for a moment, feeling the ache of nostalgia in his chest. There’d been a time when he’d loved this; the press of bodies, the scent of sweat and musk, the sheer physical pleasure that came from moving in time to music, the rush of touching and being touched. More often than not these nights had ended with him naked and tangled up with several others, at someone’s apartment or dorm room, on the floor or on the bed. 

He’d been drifting out of that scene ever since he’d started graduate school – something that required his time and attention, for a change – but that had accelerated once he’d moved in with Jim. He was trying hard to be a polite and responsible roommate, for one thing, and that meant not staying out all night or coming home in the early hours of the morning. And, on top of everything else, his last trip to Club Doom hadn’t really gone all that well. That had probably been where he’d come to David Lash’s attention, when he was trying to get information about the murder victims. 

Relief swept through him as he saw his partner’s unmistakable shape leaning against the bar, arms crossed over his chest, expression grim as he ran his eye over the crowd. Jim was doing a typically thorough job playing to type as an unfriendly bouncer. He caught Jim’s eye and then waded in and claimed a spot near the end of the bar. 

Jim waited several moments, then came down and took the seat next to Blair’s, managing to look as though he was aimlessly meandering. “Nice pants, Sandburg,” he said under his breath. 

Blair suppressed a smile. “Oh, yeah, I forgot – you left your fashion sense in the 70’s,” he murmured softly. Jim’s hearing gave them a decided advantage when it came to communicating in a crowd. “Get with it, old man. Pajama bottoms are _de rigueur_ for a rave.” 

Jim’s quiet snort was his only response. The bartender came down and raised an eyebrow at them. Jim shook his head, but Blair ordered a beer. 

Once the beer was delivered, Blair figured they had at least five minutes before the guy came back down to check on them. “Find out anything?” he asked.

“Delivery is tonight, but I still don’t know the details. Not sure they entirely trust me yet.” Jim kept his eyes focused over Blair’s head, gaze roving through the crowd, his lips barely moving as he spoke. 

“How can I help?”

“See if you can find out anything on the floor. Rumor has it Probst usually puts out a few samples once the shipment comes in. Maybe some of the regulars know the when and where.”

“Okay.” He took a sip of beer, risked a sideways glance at Jim. He could see the signs of tension at the corners of his eyes and mouth that indicated problems with his senses. “You doing all right in here?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jim said dismissively, although Blair saw him wince as the strobes started going again. “Meet you back here in an hour?”

“Sounds good.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a few bills. “Sooner I get started, sooner we—”

“Kid, you got ID?” Jim interrupted him loudly, a steel edge in his voice, and Blair stared at him for a moment, confused, until he saw the hulking form coming up from behind.

“Aw, man,” he whined, shoving the bills back in his pocket, “why you gotta be like that? I thought this place was mellow.”

“Just show me some ID.”

“Problem, Clancy?” This came from the behemoth behind Jim, all broad shoulders and heavily muscled biceps, dressed, like Jim, in black jeans and a black t-shirt. Another of Probst’s security guys. Jim Clancy was the alias Jim was using, Blair remembered. 

“No, as long as this hippy punk shows me some proof of age,” Jim replied smoothly. He hadn’t turned to look at the guy behind him, though, and his eyes held a warning. 

“Jeez,” Blair moaned, but he dug in his other pocket and handed over his driver’s license, his heart in his throat. Simon hadn’t liked the fact that he wasn’t using an alias, and he was pretty sure that Jim wasn’t going to like it, either.

“Blair Sandburg,” the guy read aloud over Jim’s shoulder. “Birthdate May 24, 1969. Looks like he’s old enough.”

“Yeah,” Jim said shortly. He handed the license back to Blair silently, but the glare he gave Blair spoke volumes. Namely, that he was going to get his ass chewed out about proper police procedure once this was over and they were back safe in the loft. 

“Come on, Probst’s got some stuff for us to do,” the guy said, putting a hand on Jim’s shoulder. Jim nodded, then turned and followed him without a backwards glance.

Blair sat at the bar a few minutes longer, letting his heart rate return to normal, before paying for his beer and heading off into the crowd to see what information he could get. 

An hour and twenty minutes later he was parked back in the same spot, this time with a glass of water in front of him and the adrenaline from dancing the cause of his pounding heart. That, and the fact that there was no sign of Jim. 

No one had been able to tell him much of anything. Yes, free samples were often distributed on the dance floor. No, no one knew when or where or even why. Most chalked it up to Probst’s generosity. Blair found himself almost nostalgic for that level of naivete about the world. It had been hard to keep that once he’d started working with Jim; impossible once he’d accepted the badge. 

But one thing everyone was agreed on was that no samples had hit the floor tonight. So it seemed the delivery hadn’t happened yet. 

Blair chewed lightly on his lower lip and tried to be patient. Maybe Jim was getting the details about the delivery right now. And any minute now, he’d appear next to Blair and give him the nod, and Blair would call Simon on his cell phone and give him the signal to bring in the troops. 

When there was still no sign of Jim, twenty minutes later, he was starting to think something had gone wrong. He could see other guys of Probst’s – there was nothing like dressing in all black to make you easy to spot – moving through the crowd as was generally the deal, but not Jim. 

He tried to ignore the restless, itchy feeling under his skin that demanded he find out what was going on. Jim was pretty experienced in undercover work. He knew what he was doing and he could take care of himself. He wouldn’t thank Blair for stumbling in at a crucial point and blowing his cover. 

_But you’re his partner_ , a little voice in the back of his head was saying. _You’re supposed to back him up_.

A hand landed on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned, quickly, only to find it was Ramona Hardy, a fellow grad student, only from Archaeology rather than Anthropology. “Hey,” Ramona said, smiling affably, “didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Sorry,” he replied, pasting what he hoped was a sheepish grin across his face. “Was miles from here, lost in thought.”

“You look like you could use a little of this, then,” Ramona said, her smile widening as she put her hand out. In the cup of her palm was nestled a small blue pill. 

“Dude. You rock.” He let Ramona tip the pill into his hand, then pretended to swallow it along with a long drink of water. “Do I owe you for this?” he asked as he slipped the palmed drug into his pants pocket. 

“Nah. Courtesy of the house, tonight.” 

Blair felt his stomach drop. So the samples were out. The delivery was made. Then where the hell was Jim? “Cool,” he replied, trying to keep his voice light and unconcerned. 

It must have worked, because Ramona clapped him on the shoulder, then pointed to a knot of people standing at the edge of the dance floor. “I’ve got some more stuff to pass out. But then I’ll be over there, with some others from Rainier. Come join us when it’s kicked in.”

“Will do.” 

As he watched Ramona head off through the crowd, he drummed his fingers nervously on the top of the bar. Why hadn’t Jim met him here? Had something happened to him? Was he stuck in some situation, unable to get free for fear of blowing his cover? Or was it something more ominous? Had his cover already been blown? Was he bundled into a car trunk out back, a bullet through his brain—

_Stop it_ , he told himself sternly, trying to calm his suddenly hammering heart. _Stop freaking out and start thinking like a cop, goddammit_.

The bartender slid out from behind the bar and went through a door in the back wall marked “Staff Only”. Before he could think about it too much, Blair followed him. 

The door led into a dim hallway and Blair pressed his back against it, feeling it shut softly. The bartender was heading down to the right, apparently unaware that he had been followed. Blair counted to five, then counted again, then went to the left. 

First things first. There was a door immediately to his right and he tried it. Unlocked, and dark inside when he cracked it open. He slipped inside; by the smell it was a janitor’s closet. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed Simon's number.

“Go?”

“Go,” Blair confirmed. “I’ve seen samples on the floor.”

“Where’s Jim?”

Anxiety twisted in his gut like barbed wire. “Not sure. Going to find him now.”

“Good luck. Call me if there’s a problem.”

He ended the call, grateful for Simon’s tendency to act rather than talk. Replacing the cell phone in his pocket, he bent down and drew his back-up piece out of his ankle holster, then opened the door carefully to see if there was anyone in the hallway. 

Seeing no one, he slipped out quietly and continued in the direction he’d been going. Another door – on the left this time – led to a storeroom. Then the hallway took a turn, and he could hear voices. A quick, careful glance around the corner showed him two guys in black jeans and black t-shirts standing in front of a door, guns in shoulder holsters prominently displayed.

He leaned back against the wall, gripping his gun tightly, and trying to think of a way to lure them both away from the door. But before he could implement any of his ideas, he heard the crackle of static, and then a tinny voice. “Majors, Conrad, you there?”

“Yeah?” one of the two answered.

“Get over to the loading dock! The cops are here, it’s a raid!”

“What about the prisoner?”

“Forget about him – we need help!” Gunfire sounded faintly through the receiver.

Blair had barely enough time to wrench open the door he’d found earlier and lunge inside before heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. Through the cracked-open door he watched the two men pass by as they ran towards the other end of the building. 

Prisoner. He swallowed nervously. On the one hand, the presence of the guards meant that it was a good bet that Jim wasn’t dead. You didn’t need two men to guard a dead body, after all. On the other hand, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t injured, or worse. Because he found it hard to believe that those two guys could keep Jim in a room if he wanted to escape. 

He crept out of the storeroom and around the corner to the door he’d seen earlier. It was unlocked, and he breathed a sigh full of thankful relief as he slipped inside. At last something was going right. 

The room was practically empty, except for a few wooden pallets stacked against a wall to his right, and a narrow cot in the center of the room. Lying on the cot was the body of a man dressed all in black, his back to Blair. 

Panic jumped in his throat. He recognized those lines; those broad shoulders, the slim hips. He hurried over, dropping to his knees beside the cot and reaching out for the man’s shoulder. “Jim?” he whispered. “Are you okay?” 

At the touch of his hand, Jim rolled over onto his back and gave him a warm, tender smile. “Hey, babe. Knew you’d find me sooner or later.”

Then he framed Blair’s face with his hands and kissed him.

Blair froze. His first impulse was to pull away… except that, wow, Jim Ellison was really good at kissing. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted to kiss Jim before… he’d always known Jim had a bit of a thing for him… but they’d carried on for so long in this half-friendship, half-flirting way and it didn’t seem like either of them was ever going to do anything to change the status quo. Which was fine with him, because the status quo of being Jim’s friend and partner was more than enough…

That was when it hit him. Of course. There was someone watching, and Jim kissing him was a ruse, just like when he had asked for his ID earlier. 

So he put his heart into returning the kiss, and wasn’t surprised when he felt something cold and hard at the back of his head. “Okay, that’s enough, ladies,” a male voice growled. “This is a sweet reunion, but it’s time to get moving.” 

Jim’s face as he pulled away was gorgeous – skin flushed, pupils dilated, lips red – although the effect was slightly diluted by the look of irritation he was wearing. Blair had to admire his acting, though. The man was second to none in his ability to sell a cover story. 

“We’ll finish this later,” he said to Blair, giving him a look that, for just a second, made Blair really, really wish that they were going to do just that. Then he moved his head, almost imperceptibly, just a tiny jerk downwards, and Blair understood. _Ankle_ , he mouthed to Jim, and Jim gave another of those minute nods. 

“I said, let’s go. Now,” the guy behind Blair said, voice tight.

Blair ducked, and before the guy could react, Jim’s fist connected with his face. The guy fell backwards, sprawled on the floor, and Blair spun. He felt Jim pull the gun out of his ankle holster, heard him cock it and say “Freeze,” but then he was on top of the guy, trying to get the gun away from him. The guy was strong, and a lot bigger than Blair, but the wrestling moves Jim had taught him served him in good stead. Slamming the guy’s hand on the floor a few times helped, too, and a few minutes later he was scrambling to his feet, the guy’s gun in his hand, trained squarely on its previous owner. “Cascade Police,” Blair said, “you have the right to remain silent….”

Jim came over and cuffed the guy while Blair was reading him the rest of his rights. Now he noticed that there was a second guy on the floor by the door, cuffed and looking angry. “I was wondering why I wasn’t getting any help from you,” he said to Jim with a grin. “Now I see why.”

“You didn’t need my help,” Jim replied, shoving Blair’s gun into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back, “you were doing just fine, as usual.” He gave Blair that heart-melting smile again, and stepped in close, lifting his hand to cup the back of Blair’s neck. “Now, where were we?”

“Jim! Blair!” Simon was standing in the doorway, wearing a Kevlar vest, with a rifle cradled in his arms. He eyed the man Blair had disarmed, who was scowling up at them from the floor. “I might have known you’d be the ones to find Strakovsky.”

“Not me, sir, that was all Blair,” Jim said. His voice was warm and full of pride. But he’d dropped his hand from Blair’s neck and taken a step back, putting some distance between them. 

A myriad of emotions wrestled in Blair’s heart. He was astonished to hear that Strakovsky had been the guy he’d brought down, and filled with no small amount of pride himself in his accomplishment, although it certainly hadn’t been without help, no matter what Jim said. And he couldn’t help but feel good, hearing Jim’s praise. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much he’d wanted to hear Jim say something like that.

But he was suddenly, irrationally sad that the game was over and he wasn’t going to get that kiss after all. 

“So, tell me what happened, Sandburg,” Simon said, bringing Blair out of his reverie. 

He sketched the evening’s events out in broad strokes, except for the kiss. He did, however, turn over the Delight he’d been given. 

“And you?” Simon asked, turning to Jim.

“After Anderson found me at the bar, he took me into the back to see Probst. Once I got there, it was pretty apparent that my cover was blown.”

“Apparent how?”

“They tried to dose me with Delight – Probst was handing out cups of coffee, talking about how the delivery was going to go down. I should have had a clue from the way he grinned at me when he gave it to me, but I was focusing on the details of the delivery. Fortunately I smelled it before I’d taken more than a sip.”

“Are you okay? Did it affect you?” Blair broke in, abruptly worried.

“I’m fine,” Jim replied, but the look on his face was unreadable. “I played along a little, figuring they’d be more likely to keep a loose guard on me if they thought I was out of my head. Plus, I knew Blair would come looking for me once I didn’t show up at the bar.” He threw another one of those brilliant smiles Blair’s way. “I’d guess Strakovsky was coming to get me to use me as a hostage or something. But my partner took care of that.”

Simon was nodding and fingering the cigar in his pocket as four uniforms from the PD escorted Strakovsky and his associate out the door. “Well, good work, you two. See you down at the station,” he said, as he followed the officers.

Blair started to head out after him, but Jim’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Hang on a sec,” Jim said, his voice serious, “I’ve got something to say to you.”

Rolling his eyes, he turned back towards his partner. “Look, I know I shouldn’t have used my real name and information with that guy, but I got myself in based on—” His words were cut off as Jim pulled him forward into another kiss.

And just like the last one, this one was scorchingly hot. Blair struggled to think, but it seemed that there was a short circuit somewhere in his brain and about all he could come up with was _mmm… good_. Finally he put his hand on Jim’s chest and pushed, creating a little room between them. “Wait. Wait,” he gasped. “What… what is this?”

“I realized something tonight, while I was waiting for you to find me,” Jim said, with another one of those tender, almost goofy smiles on his face. “I realized I love you.”

Blair gaped at him, nonplussed, and then the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. He shoved Jim away from him. “Oh, my God, you’re high!” he said. “The Delight did have an effect on you!”

“No! I mean, yes, it did, but not in the way you think—”

“We need to go down to the hospital, get you checked out…”

“What for? I’m fine. I feel fine.” Jim’s smile had been replaced with a look of exasperation. “I didn’t take that much.”

“You know how sensitive you are to drugs and other medications. A little, for you, can be a lot.”

“Blair, listen to me—”

“No. You’re not… you’re not _reliable_ right now. You’re tripping; you don’t know what you’re saying.” It was surprising how much it hurt to say that. He struggled to overcome a crushing sense of disappointment that none of this was real. How could you feel so strongly about the loss of something that you hadn’t even known you’d wanted until about five minutes ago? 

Jim had adopted his ‘let’s be reasonable’ look, the one he always wore when he was trying to talk Simon into letting him do something dangerous or stupid. “Weren’t you the one telling Simon that Delight isn’t that bad? And, if I’m not mistaken, started to say something about hallucinogen use actually being beneficial?”

Blair opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. There was nothing he could say. It sucked having your own words used against you. He settled for giving Jim a mulish glare. 

Sighing, Jim raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, look. How long does this stuff last – three, four hours? It’s been an hour already since I got dosed. We’ll go down to the station, we’ll do the paperwork and the interrogations, and by the time we get done it’ll be out of my system. Will you believe me then?”

He thought about it for a moment, then gave Jim a measured nod. 

“Then come on, partner, we’ve got work to do.”

***

He watched Jim like a hawk over the next three and a half hours, and found his doubt slowly, inexorably, draining away. Jim seemed completely like himself. He sweated Strakovsky in his usual professional manner, with just the right mix of malice and compassion, and he helped Blair crack Probst by giving him some only-tangentially-relevant-but-potentially-embarrassing information that he’d learned in his short tenure as one of Probst’s men. There were no signs that he was having problems with his senses, or any other type of unusual perceptual experience. In fact, there were no signs that anything was different with Jim as a result of his exposure at all. 

“So,” Jim said, perching one hip on Blair’s desk. 

The bullpen was deserted. They’d finished their reports and handed them in to Simon, who was going to hand deliver them to the DA on his way home. Strakovsky and Probst and all their minions were locked up safely downstairs and everyone else had gone home for the night. 

“So,” Blair replied, leaning back in his chair, “you love me.” He struggled to suppress a smile. “How’d that happen?”

“I have no idea,” Jim said. “One day you came out of the bathroom with a towel around your waist and I was worrying about how much hair I was going to have to dig out of the drain. Next thing I know, there’s a burst of light, and some kind of choral singing, and rainbows everywhere.” He delivered this with a straight face, but Blair could see the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Blair rolled his eyes. “Oh, man,” he said, “no wonder your love life has gone so badly up to now. Your romance meter is way overdue for a calibration.”

Jim smiled, but then it faded. “In all seriousness, I don’t know when it started. But I realized it after… after Alex….”

“Yeah.” He glanced away, surprised that that memory was still sharp and awkward. “Me, too. I tried to tell you—”

“You did. It was my fault. I said I wasn’t ready.” Jim blew out a big breath, raking his fingers through his hair. “I… I was scared. I don’t exactly have the best track record with romance, as you know. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but I wasn’t sure how you’d respond, and I… I didn’t want to lose your friendship.”

“Let me get this straight.” Blair stood up and shifted to face Jim. “I jumped out of an airplane for you, came back from the dead for you, then gave up my career for you and you weren’t sure how I’d respond to the news that you were in love with me?”

Jim gave a small, sheepish smile, but his eyes were still grave. “There was a period of time in there where I wasn’t sure that you liked me very much.”

“You were an asshole at times,” he agreed, “well, most of the time, but I still loved you. So what happened today?”

Jim shrugged. “I don’t really know. When Probst’s guys had me, I was thinking about you – I knew you’d be worried when I didn’t show up at the bar – and I realized I wasn’t scared anymore at the thought of telling you how I felt. I _wanted_ to tell you… it seemed stupid, pointless, to keep hiding it, to keep pretending. And then you showed up.”

He nodded slowly, thinking. “A lot of people have described similar experiences on hallucinogens – a burst of insight; not so much new information as seeing the world in a new, more positive way. And they usually report that it stays with them even after the drug wears off.”

Jim’s hands cupped his hips, tugging him close. “So, am I still hallucinating, or did I hear you say you loved me, too?”

“You’re not hallucinating.” With Jim sitting on the desk, their heads were at the same height, and he was able to kiss Jim just by leaning forward a little. 

This time it was Jim who pulled away, skin flushed, breathing irregular. “We should continue this back at the loft,” he said. 

“What, I’m not going to get wined and dined?” Blair said, pretending to be aggrieved. “No dinner and a movie?”

“How about leftover Chinese and a beer,” Jim offered, grinning, “and I promise you there’ll be a hell of a show.”

“You’re on.” He grabbed his coat and tossed Jim’s to him. “Last one home buys the beer.”


End file.
